Think of something else.
Not him, the man on my speed dial I never called, not while I did this. I didn’t understand why it hurt him to see what I was when he met a dozen other hookers in his daily work, each worse off than me, but it did. I couldn’t think of my best friend Allie or her daughter either, because to imagine them in this position was a weight too heavy to carry.
His fingers were inside me, pumping away. Thank goodness I’d lubed up, or this would really hurt.
It still hurt. God.
Philip, now he understood me. He wouldn’t mourn for me or feel guilty. We did what we had to and didn’t waste time on remorse. But I’d told him I was done with the life. I’d promised I’d let him know if I needed help. I needed help, needed…
“Stop,” I gasped.
He froze and then gently rocked his fingers back and forth, like a child testing his boundaries.
I lowered my voice. “Wait, lover. I just need to freshen up.”
He raised his head and blinked, confused. “You look pretty to me.”
My stomach twisted at the compliment. He looked so earnest, his eyes slack with lust and his mouth covered in his own spit. This wasn’t a guy who got off on hurting or humiliating. He just didn’t know how to deal with people, wouldn’t know how to please a woman if he tried. Hell, maybe he was trying.
“Thank you.” I choked on the words. “I want to look good for you. Make it good for you. Give me five minutes. Please.” Because if he didn’t, I would freak. If he didn’t get his thick fingers out of me and off my skin this very second, I was liable to do something really stupid. Like leave and to hell with Henri and his hired fists.
The guy backed up, though. His face contorted into an uncertain composition of wounded lover and dissatisfied customer, but he released me, stepped back. I attempted a smile, ignored the pounding in my ears. I wanted to tell him that I would be right back, that everything would be fabulous, but how could I when I didn’t believe it myself?
I’d forgotten how to lie. In this business, I was as good as dead.
I pushed off the wall and stumbled my way down the hall. I passed the sitting area, catching flashes of rumpled suits and one lace-clad female body straddling a guy probably twice her age. What was her name? Jenny, Janey, what the fuck ever because it was all a lie. All fake.
The bathroom was empty—thank God for small favors. The sound of the door slamming cracked loud in my head, even though surely it wouldn’t be heard above the music. I locked it anyway, turning the little knob. So flimsy, an illusion of safety.
I rested my palms on the counter and stared at myself in the mirror. Blonde hair that I’d straightened this afternoon, sleek and shiny. Makeup—perfect, even though lover boy had slobbered down the side of it. Waterproof stuff, cum-proof stuff—never let them see you sweat.
Even my eyes were steady. Clear. Empty.
I searched my appearance for something, any sign of weakness—none. This was what strength looked like, then. Oh, I had confidence aplenty. I strolled and drawled and acted my fucking heart out, but that was the secret. For me, it had never been an act. I hadn’t been hiding what was inside me. There was nothing inside me.
So what was one more empty promise? If he really cared, he would be here right now. He would have protected me from this. What was one more trick? If the life was all I had, I might as well live it.
I touched up my makeup, just because. My hand trembled only a little, but my face came out flawless, like always. And then there was nothing left to pretend, no way left to stall.
The hallway was still empty, and I started to head back to the sitting area. I heard a sound over the pulse of the music: a muffled cry. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end; my heart began to race.
No big deal. Of course there would be those sounds at a party like this, where women were paid to perform, to endure. Probably she had faked it on purpose. But I knew she hadn’t.
Still, don’t get involved. That was the first rule of staying alive. Even that pitiful kid from yesterday had instinctively understood how it worked: look away, pretend you don’t see, don’t start trouble.
But there it was again, that sound. It curled sharp nails into my gut, signaling danger. Get away.
I had stayed alive for years by keeping to myself. Those latent self-protective instincts were still there, still honed, and yet I couldn’t walk away, couldn’t leave her there without knowing.
I crept down the empty hallway and paused at one closed door. At first there was nothing. I almost turned away, left, but then I heard a moan. A female moan of fake pleasure, and that was fine, just fine. Time to go.